Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ma Cherie Sep 2016
Speaking of broken hearts
and mended fenced in mem'ries  
I am painting skies
of tangerine, saffron
& an illuminated lilac hue
against the starkly contrasted crisp cornflower blue, stretching canvas that is
along with all the
other blindingly beautiful colors of a twilight sky

And those dripping cotton candy stratospheric clouds
Ice crystals freezing into supercooled
water droplets
Streaking the sky in cirrus whispers
..I hear them whisper, "hello"...

Blinding beauty
through unadulterated sunlight
I am fleeced like a lamb
watching in awe, wonder
then stomping sounds
of coming thunder,

Finding depth and height
out  in the stratosphere
Blinded by the
After Light
or afterglow
affected by the amount of haze
I'm in a daze I am reaching

High above the fading light
of a brilliant early fall sunset
I take a big breath
of that sumptuous air
and twirl my skirted legs
my painted toes
where I know
I am back
to solid ground

Appreciating the last time
I say sleep well
to you  my dear
summertimes sweet mem'ries
and the fun we had this year.

Cherie Nolan © 2016
Wow....idk. Felt inspired.
jeffrey robin Nov 2010
and who is not afraid to wonder?

starkly naked



in the moonlight


starkly naked bodies

before the camera



we do what we must to survive


we do not survive


starkly naked

our bodies

torturing eachother

in the war

of which we do not wonder
jane taylor Apr 2016
in the midst of an emerald slumbering forest
laced with pungent scents of jaded wood
a burgundy blushed tail
of a chestnut hued fox
scurries as copper sunbeams part the day

a hospital lumes starkly nearby
its aura exudes hints of melancholy
commingled with faint impressions
of halcyon futures
not yet lived

at neighboring dartmouth
a student sprinting to class
drops his crimson colored backpack
the prospect of cancer
far from his budding consciousness

my beloved sits patiently
pondering pensively
his last chemo treatment
elusion of death
not far from his mind

i feign to fend off future catastrophes
watching letters scramble across my screen
earnestly writing
in a desperate attempt
to be with him forevermore

an aquamarine hummingbird drenched in tranquility
senses the inverse
its amber tipped wings stand seemingly stationary
while it steals a quick glance through the window
curious at chemical infusions meant to heal

my beloved walks out
of the austere building
with rose colored glasses i feel
that we’ll whirl on the tips of gilded stardust
dancing with another chance to fly

And who shall care for that o'er which you weep
Or share the burden of this world's foredoom
Seen starkly? Behold, a haunting specter creeps
Among the binding fates spun on life's loom.
You’ll wake them not to that great misery
Which emptiness of pride has reckless wove
But pluck the web for loss and trembling
Of idols in the soul for which they strove.
Put off your glossy youth and early oaths
Devout nativity; raise up your cup
To ***** Lethe and thunder with the strokes
Of fury, treading out the ripened sup!
They will not bear to flay their sacred cows
But shades of death endure and prostrate bow.

Ages in their veins, more raging, whirl
As titanic potentials’ dreadful might
Turns girl to boy, conversely boy to girl
Unlimbing reason for unreason's fright.
That once gone right, here deftly ventures left
As self-conception staggers to its doom
Bursting the bonds of day and night, distressed
With desperate grasping measures, late and soon.
So set on generation's awesome curve
Of ageless heart and mind, how shall they bear
The die they cast at first when madly swerved
Into contesting congresses of care?
Dividing parts, dissolving in the same
The common wealth, no part the whole maintains.

Boast of the times and gilded privilege
Are these pretended guardians of State
Whose politics of power have sought to bank
Their future 'gainst dissenting arguments.
With rhetoric to foist a brave new age
They come as chaos mages on the brink
Of all disposing will, all ends betrayed
To serve their corporations’ nod and wink.
Auctioning the world, their goods are sold
Commercially with avaricious might
That sanctions lust, in quest of pyrite gold
And pirate earnings, staked upon deceit.
At last, the men of mock integrity
Luring the world to covert slavery!

Hurrah, the master men and lords of time-
From time brought forth, they are the world's latest
Whose overweening strut is in the best
Of culminating age, the mind refined!
Now to and fro they go, their lists increased
With every tally; line for line computes
Their beads of enterprise, the while relieved
Of tribulation, fate of hapless dupes.
Learning is theirs, precepts are theirs to bend;
Lawyers, clerics, politicians rest
Upon this pillar; they can split or mend
The finest lines; no guile their thoughts distress.
Step by step they round the universe
And finite lies to infinite converse!

What pride of theirs that strains for fleeting fame
Seeking to wrest from time the wasting plaque
Of recognition, host to every hack
That postures on the stage of the obscene!
Pretending worth, their practiced scripts dispose
In mocking light an empty dignity
While darkening intents; witless disclosed
On lips and brow their self-important glee.
As if full-wrought by truth's heroic wing
Their pride aspires; on vain conceits they soar
Up through the mist while private songs they sing
In self-made praise for deeds of phantom lore.
From belfries of the schools, in broken flight
They shriek away, hell's banshees of the night!

These timely wise, entranced of mind, decree-
Hear all you simple what we shall disclose
Which craft of our discernment is repose
Of wealth in understanding mastery.
A gift to all, these rich-invested beings
Pretending to resolve profundities
Decoct the world with learned fluency
Of torture ways, all gnostic knots untied.
A flair for comedy, their gelded self
Mounts every snorting bore of certainty
Then armchair resting, pants to yet indulge
Another ******* idol’s reckless scheme.
Some stowaways upon the open seas
And polished sextants of academe!

Here is their derogation, born from creeds
Of judgment in self-righteous confidence
That proves for nothing to the innocent
But swamps life's refugees with cruel conceit.
With ages they have built the edifice
Of dogma; every pit and lion’s maw
Is their contraption, set in consciousness
Of the condemning letter of their laws.
Cunning serpents, masquerading doves
They fashion argument, more vicious wrought
With rationales to blacklist those who strove
To flee their institutions’ heinous plot.
Enamored with a fascist benefit
The systems of the world they implement!

Fanatic men, how bold they tempt the fates
That meet to each the fruits of brutish will
Redoubled, which they’ve spent in kind to date
Upon their brothers, sisters…other self.
They make an estimation, rule the span
Between men; lord over equity
With zero tolerance and brazen hand
To smash upon their consanguinity.
Such is the wicked priesthood’s confidence
In its own judgment, ever owning not
The wrong condemned in others, deep dispensed
To every heart, from roots of life begot.
More wretched they, and haunted with the shame
Of hypocrites, bedeviled by the same!

O law of learning, sum of thinkers' best
Now magnified, ensconced upon the power
Of natal worth and privileged social dower;
Once ruled by you, the Earth pleads for redress.
No scruple sought, no reservation found
To staunch against your certifying will
Which point of iron stylus now furrows
The world at large as object for the ****.
So cart away your pleading victim, mired
In ****** wallows of concupiscence
And grace deny, self-dubbed the doubtless squire-
Errant usurper of the human quest.
How dignified, the rake of your ambition
That promises continual division!
Äŧül Aug 2014
As I move on the streets of Mangalore city on the west seafront,
It is an afternoon and the sun is starkly overhead,
Burning, roasting in the hot-dry sky of May.

While en route the beach I passed from a really silent street,
Then I pass from the side of the Rosario Cathedral,
The only person I notice was a young vendor.

The vendor is a little girl who looked determined to empty her stock,
I peered into her basket and was pleased to see in it,
Even today I believe she sits there by the street.

Sitting in the rain or in the harsh, merciless sun she prays to the God,
Just back to her the church apparently has some priority line to Him,
She bribes Him a beautiful sea shell or two if He sends some buyers...

Though I do not need any sea shells, but I still go and spare a look,
I choose a pair of green sea shells and pay her for it,
Because she sells the sea shells by the street side.
I have been to Mangalore, but this poem is partly a product of imagination.
Mangalore city is a port on the western coast of India in the southern state of Karnataka.

My HP Poem #663
©Atul Kaushal
The south-wind brings
Life, sunshine, and desire,
And on every mount and meadow
Breathes aromatic fire,
But over the dead he has no power,
The lost, the lost he cannot restore,
And, looking over the hills, I mourn
The darling who shall not return.

I see my empty house,
I see my trees repair their boughs,
And he, —the wondrous child,
Whose silver warble wild
Outvalued every pulsing sound
Within the air's cerulean round,
The hyacinthine boy, for whom
Morn well might break, and April bloom,
The gracious boy, who did adorn
The world whereinto he was born,
And by his countenance repay
The favor of the loving Day,
Has disappeared from the Day's eye;
Far and wide she cannot find him,
My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him.
Returned this day the south-wind searches
And finds young pines and budding birches,
But finds not the budding man;
Nature who lost him, cannot remake him;
Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him;
Nature, Fate, men, him seek in vain.

And whither now, my truant wise and sweet,
Oh, whither tend thy feet?
I had the right, few days ago,
Thy steps to watch, thy place to know;
How have I forfeited the right?
Hast thou forgot me in a new delight?
I hearken for thy household cheer,
O eloquent child!
Whose voice, an equal messenger,
Conveyed thy meaning mild.
What though the pains and joys
Whereof it spoke were toys
Fitting his age and ken;—
Yet fairest dames and bearded men,
Who heard the sweet request
So gentle, wise, and grave,
Bended with joy to his behest,
And let the world's affairs go by,
Awhile to share his cordial game,
Or mend his wicker wagon frame,
Still plotting how their hungry ear
That winsome voice again might hear,
For his lips could well pronounce
Words that were persuasions.

Gentlest guardians marked serene
His early hope, his liberal mien,
Took counsel from his guiding eyes
To make this wisdom earthly wise.
Ah! vainly do these eyes recall
The school-march, each day's festival,
When every morn my ***** glowed
To watch the convoy on the road;—
The babe in willow wagon closed,
With rolling eyes and face composed,
With children forward and behind,
Like Cupids studiously inclined,
And he, the Chieftain, paced beside,
The centre of the troop allied,
With sunny face of sweet repose,
To guard the babe from fancied foes,
The little Captain innocent
Took the eye with him as he went,
Each village senior paused to scan
And speak the lovely caravan.

From the window I look out
To mark thy beautiful parade
Stately marching in cap and coat
To some tune by fairies played;
A music heard by thee alone
To works as noble led thee on.
Now love and pride, alas, in vain,
Up and down their glances strain.
The painted sled stands where it stood,
The kennel by the corded wood,
The gathered sticks to stanch the wall
Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall,
The ominous hole he dug in the sand,
And childhood's castles built or planned.
His daily haunts I well discern,
The poultry yard, the shed, the barn,
And every inch of garden ground
Paced by the blessed feet around,
From the road-side to the brook;
Whereinto he loved to look.
Step the meek birds where erst they ranged,
The wintry garden lies unchanged,
The brook into the stream runs on,
But the deep-eyed Boy is gone.

On that shaded day,
Dark with more clouds than tempests are,
When thou didst yield thy innocent breath
In bird-like heavings unto death,
Night came, and Nature had not thee,—
I said, we are mates in misery.
The morrow dawned with needless glow,
Each snow-bird chirped, each fowl must crow,
Each tramper started,— but the feet
Of the most beautiful and sweet
Of human youth had left the hill
And garden,—they were bound and still,
There's not a sparrow or a wren,
There's not a blade of autumn grain,
Which the four seasons do not tend,
And tides of life and increase lend,
And every chick of every bird,
And **** and rock-moss is preferred.
O ostriches' forgetfulness!
O loss of larger in the less!
Was there no star that could be sent,
No watcher in the firmament,
No angel from the countless host,
That loiters round the crystal coast,
Could stoop to heal that only child,
Nature's sweet marvel undefiled,
And keep the blossom of the earth,
Which all her harvests were not worth?
Not mine, I never called thee mine,
But nature's heir,— if I repine,
And, seeing rashly torn and moved,
Not what I made, but what I loved.
Grow early old with grief that then
Must to the wastes of nature go,—
'Tis because a general hope
Was quenched, and all must doubt and *****
For flattering planets seemed to say,
This child should ills of ages stay,—
By wondrous tongue and guided pen
Bring the flown muses back to men. —
Perchance, not he, but nature ailed,
The world, and not the infant failed,
It was not ripe yet, to sustain
A genius of so fine a strain,
Who gazed upon the sun and moon
As if he came unto his own,
And pregnant with his grander thought,
Brought the old order into doubt.
Awhile his beauty their beauty tried,
They could not feed him, and he died,
And wandered backward as in scorn
To wait an Æon to be born.
Ill day which made this beauty waste;
Plight broken, this high face defaced!
Some went and came about the dead,
And some in books of solace read,
Some to their friends the tidings say,
Some went to write, some went to pray,
One tarried here, there hurried one,
But their heart abode with none.
Covetous death bereaved us all
To aggrandize one funeral.
The eager Fate which carried thee
Took the largest part of me.
For this losing is true dying,
This is lordly man's down-lying,
This is slow but sure reclining,
Star by star his world resigning.

O child of Paradise!
Boy who made dear his father's home
In whose deep eyes
Men read the welfare of the times to come;
I am too much bereft;
The world dishonored thou hast left;
O truths and natures costly lie;
O trusted, broken prophecy!
O richest fortune sourly crossed;
Born for the future, to the future lost!

The deep Heart answered, Weepest thou?
Worthier cause for passion wild,
If I had not taken the child.
And deemest thou as those who pore
With aged eyes short way before?
Think'st Beauty vanished from the coast
Of matter, and thy darling lost?
Taught he not thee, — the man of eld,
Whose eyes within his eyes beheld
Heaven's numerous hierarchy span
The mystic gulf from God to man?
To be alone wilt thou begin,
When worlds of lovers hem thee in?
To-morrow, when the masks shall fall
That dizen nature's carnival,
The pure shall see, by their own will,
Which overflowing love shall fill,—
'Tis not within the force of Fate
The fate-conjoined to separate.
But thou, my votary, weepest thou?
I gave thee sight, where is it now?
I taught thy heart beyond the reach
Of ritual, Bible, or of speech;
Wrote in thy mind's transparent table
As far as the incommunicable;
Taught thee each private sign to raise
Lit by the supersolar blaze.
Past utterance and past belief,
And past the blasphemy of grief,
The mysteries of nature's heart,—
And though no muse can these impart,
Throb thine with nature's throbbing breast,
And all is clear from east to west.

I came to thee as to a friend,
Dearest, to thee I did not send
Tutors, but a joyful eye,
Innocence that matched the sky,
Lovely locks a form of wonder,
Laughter rich as woodland thunder;
That thou might'st entertain apart
The richest flowering of all art;
And, as the great all-loving Day
Through smallest chambers takes its way,
That thou might'st break thy daily bread
With Prophet, Saviour, and head;
That thou might'st cherish for thine own
The riches of sweet Mary's Son,
Boy-Rabbi, Israel's Paragon:
And thoughtest thou such guest
Would in thy hall take up his rest?
Would rushing life forget its laws,
Fate's glowing revolution pause?
High omens ask diviner guess,
Not to be conned to tediousness.
And know, my higher gifts unbind
The zone that girds the incarnate mind,
When the scanty shores are full
With Thought's perilous whirling pool,
When frail Nature can no more,—
Then the spirit strikes the hour,
My servant Death with solving rite
Pours finite into infinite.
Wilt thou freeze love's tidal flow,
Whose streams through nature circling go?
Nail the star struggling to its track
On the half-climbed Zodiack?
Light is light which radiates,
Blood is blood which circulates,
Life is life which generates,
And many-seeming life is one,—
Wilt thou transfix and make it none,
Its onward stream too starkly pent
In figure, bone, and lineament?

Wilt thou uncalled interrogate
Talker! the unreplying fate?
Nor see the Genius of the whole
Ascendant in the private soul,
Beckon it when to go and come,
Self-announced its hour of doom.
Fair the soul's recess and shrine,
Magic-built, to last a season,
Masterpiece of love benign!
Fairer than expansive reason
Whose omen 'tis, and sign.
Wilt thou not ope this heart to know
What rainbows teach and sunsets show,
Verdict which accumulates
From lengthened scroll of human fates,
Voice of earth to earth returned,
Prayers of heart that inly burned;
Saying, what is excellent,
As God lives, is permanent
Hearts are dust, hearts' loves remain,
Heart's love will meet thee again.
Revere the Maker; fetch thine eye
Up to His style, and manners of the sky.
Not of adamant and gold
Built He heaven stark and cold,
No, but a nest of bending reeds,
Flowering grass and scented weeds,
Or like a traveller's fleeting tent,
Or bow above the tempest pent,
Built of tears and sacred flames,
And virtue reaching to its aims;
Built of furtherance and pursuing,
Not of spent deeds, but of doing.
Silent rushes the swift Lord
Through ruined systems still restored,
Broad-sowing, bleak and void to bless,
Plants with worlds the wilderness,
Waters with tears of ancient sorrow
Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow;
House and tenant go to ground,
Lost in God, in Godhead found.
raine miller Jan 2013
soft flecks riding gentle gusts
melting into the same stone-gray sky
like specters into walls,
only to reappear moments later
starkly suspended against
dark misted figures
composed of anything
and nothing
this silent storm
falls fast
creating a blank slate
for us to etch our stories upon
first snowfall of the season! i love the simple blank beauty of snow.
Cedric McClester Apr 2015
By: Cedric McClester

The ruling oligarchy
Says it’s middle-class malarkey
To suggest they differ starkly
When it comes to the poor
Whom the rich try to ignore
Cos the haves now want more
Than they ever did before

The strong vanquish the weak
As the oil prices tweak
To the stratosphere they seek
And the profits are obscene
As they pick our pockets clean
That’s why most of us are hurtin
Not the case with Haliburton

Bush is a disgrace
But he does support his base
They’re the rich – in any case
We have challenges to face
And we are gettin queasier
Cos it’s not getting easier

Now we hear
The Green House gases
Threatens all our *****
But the legislation passes
That deregulates the gases
Which pollutes the atmosphere
That’s why global warming’s here

Bush is a disgrace
But he does support his base
They’re the rich – in any case
We have challenges to face
And we are gettin queasier
Cos it’s not getting easier

The ruling oligarchy
Says it’s middle-class malarkey
To suggest they differ starkly
When it comes to the poor
Whom the rich try to ignore
Cos the haves now want more
Than they ever did before

(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.
r Jan 2014
The stately oak stands solemn and quiet
Alongside the bucolic covered bridge
Its branches hanging downward as if tired
Leaves falling slowly into the current
Of the rain swollen Watauga River

The shadow of the tree clinging starkly
Onto the weathered century-old planks
Speaking of a time not so far removed
When bridge and tree was the gathering place
For a day's respite from a hard week's toil

Farmers, merchants, wives and children gathered
With picnic baskets filled with fried chicken
The women chatting in their new bonnets
The children wearing last year's Sunday best
While the men make bets like Roman soldiers

The low mound where the tree's roots are anchored
Bare earth beneath the lowest hanging limb
A crude stool of newly cut pine upright
While waiting for the next unwilling guest
Courthouse clock chimes the hour of Golgotha

r  14Jan14
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2010
Dedicated to the Steelers who do their hard work so well.

The Pier five superstructure
Looms above the turgid waves,
Gothic cranes do hover close
To service needs of orange knaves
Who swarm to manufacture,
Who work to make complete
This massive bridging edifice,
This mighty engineering feat.

Cathedral like in grey austerity
Freezing zephyrs howl and blow,
Through the maintenance shaft tunnels,
Through the bridge's bowels go.
The catacombs are echoing,
Stark light's reflection deep
In corridors of baleful concrete
Through which angled cause ways sweep.

A forest of reinforcing rods
Stand starkly high and straight,
Atop adjacent pylons
Which arise from deep mud's gate.
Hazard lights are flashing
Amber, green and blue
As north east gales bring pelting rain
To obliterate the view

The tattooed hands of black skinned steeler
Twitch the wire to make the loom,
Lattice works of reinforcing
Blackened mesh of iron entombed.
Hard to fathom steeler's chatter
Bending low to twitch by feel,
Working fast in noisy unison
Twitching reinforcing steel.
Pliers flash in rapid movement
Wrist's convulse in rapid slap
Unintelligible chatter flows
But the job is finished, just like that.

Skill saw screams in echoed silence
Booming blows of hammers pound,
Pipe work's resonance percussion
Tempered by a sad song's sound.
Great concussions pound the air
As towering cranes do drive,
Enormous pylons into mud
And bedrock's solid hide

The mighty form travellers moving
High above cold estuary waves,
Reaching forth for unbuilt mana
It's red extension arm enclaves
Providing for the next poured section,
Providing for the next steel work,
Reaching out for firm embrace
Where Pier four's form travellers lurk.

The pungency of solvents spread
Across the steel plate, made to last;
Barrier to adherence of
The sticky concrete's surface cast.
The form work archway's wooden shell
Adopts a high cathedral stance,
This bride in waiting nervous for
The concrete pumps lithe serpent dance.

An unyielding environment
A hard surfaced place to be
Where materials of venom
Are handled casually.
Where massive superstructures
Unforgiving in their stance
Lead the busy, ant like steelers
In their lofty, hard days prance.

To look across Pier Five's expanse
And view the surface cant,
And visualize the future motorway
With it's headlong traffic rant;
And look again at what is spread
Across it's surface now,
At the jumbled reinforcing steel,
The cables, tools and how,
Organizationally chaotic
The whole affair appears ???
Whilst in actuality, my friends,
This clockwork sequence has no peers.

With the roar of passing traffic
As the headlights flash on by,
And the Pier's massive cantilever
Looms impossibly to sky.
One must praise the skilled designers
And those engineers of skill
Who summount vast odds of nature
To scale this monumental hill.
As this mostrous concrete edifice
Claws inexorably from tide,
To loom in towering sillouhette
Where estuary mists abide.

Manukau Harbour Crossing
29 June 2009
Zachary Devitt Mar 2012
A lion that cannot roar,
A mouse's voice that booms across a tiny horizon
in a box pushed up against the window
shuffling about in the night
aimlessly pacing forgetting what was just back there
but knowing that he unwraps the fabric of time
spinning it back, onto A spindle-y future
a mouse gone blind now thrice
what can't I see
What can can i see
what if you don't see too
well then i must be
there is something blurry off there in the distance
i can cannot tell if my window is *****
or the thing is simply a vague example of poor resolution
My voice booms
is it is louder than it isn't is it
if you brought your nocs
what is it you see
that poorly resolved distant figurine behind the ***** glass of the cardboard prison is it could it be
CR Feb 2013
greece, even, in the nostalgia decades sometimes wore american clothes
but she spoke no english, was starkly unilingual
save for the french "sillage". she was the reason they teach you safe ***
and abstinence: the reason they couldn't trust you
she dressed more american than everybody else; she was a beautiful cockeyed anachronism

your jimmy stewart baby blues on her, brandy-sanctioned
better than the everyman. and a hallucination of your stand-in therapist
asking you "why should there be guilt if there is pleasure?"
and you replying horselike/illogical "it is the unconscious fantasy that i can be torn apart"
arielle Jul 2018
staying up late just thinking of all the could-beens and should-beens that could and should have been us.

what if we'd tried a little harder? persisted a little longer? held on to each other as tightly as we should have?
would you be by my side then, instead of the empty void staring tauntingly back at me?
would our hands be clasped together, interwoven,
your eyes that once bored right back into the back of mind haunting me wherever i would go,
your touch tattooed into the skin of my palms as they once were?

what if i hadn't let go?
what if i'd learnt fate's cruel lesson that
possessing the trait of fickleness never awarded anything but everything slipping past, earlier?
would you be willing to stay with me then, and forgive me for all the wrongdoings that i would inevitably cause?
would we have ever evolved into more than just an idealized dream drawn from a fragmented memory,
the idea of an irrevocable love that despite having been mulled over for what would've seemed like an eternity,
has never seen the light of reality before?

then again, everything does appear only better when it's all in your head.
when i can still pretend that you are who i expect you to be,
and i may be accepted for who i am truly,
excess baggage of unneeded insecurities and imperfections weighing me down and all.

is it better to be cleanly rejected or to be
torn down bit by bit,
night by night,
spent just staring at a blank screen and waiting,
hovering over imperishably,
pure naive hope fuelling the drive to continue delaying the inexorable?
foolishly believing that crossed fingers and
any lingering feelings that hadn't yet been sieved away by the
jaded culture we exist and drown in today
would perhaps, even if accidentally,
as if out of a fairytale that i starkly don't belong to,
send me a text back?
not entirely sure if i'm doing this right but yeah
John F McCullagh Apr 2012
It is a pleasant place to lie,
amidst a copse of Olive trees.
The tears of muses, never dried,
have effaced the writing from your stone.
These hills about once knew your step,
your strong and confident poet’s stride.
Robert, the Royal Fusilier,
Once thought dead, but you’d survived.

Your home is a museum now,
Your Black Cordoban hangs on the wall.
I step into the little den
where you finally said farewell to all.
Looking out your window I
Espy a naked maiden flee.
Skin starkly white with Golden hair-
The White goddess? Could it be?
At any rate, a comely lass,
Beauty to whet a poet’s pen
I’ve heard you were inspired thus
by lovely muses, now and then.

Your domestic arrangements
Were quite strange;
celibate infidelity.
I’ll admit that’s one I haven’t tried.
Nor would I like to, honestly.
But your genius can’t be ignored.
by honest literary men.
I’ve spend hours in Ancient Rome
transported by your fertile pen.

Farewell Robert, Beryl too
You knew he’d be yours at the end.
Muses fuel a poet’s pen
But cannot love as wives may do.
Lilly Tran Sep 2012
I feel your absence in my sleep,
the two by six abyss where your body should be.
Crime scene lines in my mind stand out starkly on the sheets;
those lines of snow and desperate hoes stealing you away from me.
It's been weeks now where
rolled-up bills, razorblades, railroad tracks have become your new significant other.

The minutes tic-tocking by in my dreams,
without you they slink by so slow from my fitful doze.
I wander and wade in nightmares after smoking sheep and counting green,
the Sandman is stalking me, mocking me and I'm praying you were near.
I put the ghost of your body in this pillow
but a stuffed bag is no soldier, so with nothing to protect me, I lie awake with no lover.

5 AM: caked-up ***** cutting lines for you.
Do you feel like a rock star now?
Rocks of blow, star of skanks, putting the King in ******* pathetic.
Dictator of my days but just a distant memory at night;
did I imagine you in the sun? Did you actually sleep next to me once?

I never sleep on your vacant side.
Even while tossing and turning in the tiny hours of the night,
I can still feel the divide
from that thin white line.
Westley Barnes Jul 2014
This home is becoming
Like a weathermast of the soul
Beaten into responding silence.

To awaken here again
And to only wear this armour
As a riposte sufficient to self-assurance
And to rise, out of lazy eyelids and
Consider the opposing wind turrets
Laid as the proposition
All slack and starkly
Poised on the trapeze

The wallpaper durability of family headaches ;
The spurned lover's recurring luminosity
The marked and re-imagined lists
Detailing personal no-shows and defeats
Bookended by
The passing on of friendly eyes.

Assuming the universal, and in doing so, blindly holding out for the miracle :
For falling out of love is completely plausible
Whereas letting go of shame is mostly incomprehensible
Terry O'Leary Oct 2013
"Once upon a midnight", ghostly,
Partied many, dead ones mostly.
Feasting in the graveyard, sprightly,
Black fanged werewolves gorged, engrossedly.

In the bone yard, drab and squalid,
Apparitions (staring stolid
Neath the veiled moon, clouded lightly),
Sought fresh bodies, lean but solid.

Fiendish eyes shone, light and sparkly,
Ghouls and demons danced, so darkly.
Maggots munching mush unsightly,
Black blood streamed like ink, quite starkly.

Fetid flesh oozed, flowing freely,
Through the crypt doors, cold and steely.
Shadows, ashen, pranced contritely,
Ebon serpents slithered eely.

As it happens, all too often,
Zombies dimly closed the coffin –
Ra, the sun god, rising slightly
Hunger pangs were soon to soften.

If you ask, I’ll tell you blankly,
When you’re feeling dark and dankly
Come to where this happens nightly.
They’ll enjoy the feast, quite frankly...


Apologies to EAP
e goforth May 2014
he is sharp angles
bony elbows
knobby knees
and ribs protruding fiercely from

honey blonde locks
plastered against his skull
and sweat
beads on a

he braces for the
nails growing
teeth sharpening
body contorting
flesh ripping away from bones.

thick ropey scars criss-cross
over his back
and you could swear
those were
bite marks
along his spine.

he will shake and shudder
teeth clenched
eyes shut tight
against the horrors
but no matter what you ask
he will not answer.

a worn sweater hangs loose
around narrow shoulders
and dark
circles stand out
against porcelain cheeks.

when the full moon comes
in all it’s horrific glory
he will touch
your cheek
and send you away
with a sigh.

wine-red blood seeps
from claw marks
on a slender limb
and he kisses your worries
even as he weeps.
This is a Harry Potter fanfic-poem, starring Remus Lupin and Sirius Black.
Marshal Gebbie Jan 2016
Before the time of Legions strong
When Romans wore their tresses long,
Before the ape man rose *****
To view the world as circumspect,
Before the storms of red dust came
To render this parched land arcane,
There grew a tree of ugly norm
Of massive girth and height and form,
Ungainly so and so immense
As to astound thee to commence,
To fear the very sight beheld
On Africa’s savannah veldt.

The baobab rose from the plain
Unearthly, in demonic name,
An apparition to dismay
All those who dare to come this way.
Vaulting from savannah grass
To clasp the heavens in it's grasp
Then spread its’ limbs, as if to be,
All silhouettes’ eternity.
Giant Aloft in giant-less land,
Far more than thee would understand,
Mystic in its’ silent way
Eternal as the light of day,
Starkly silhouetted sight
Affronting delving sunset’s might.

18 January 2016
....and there are 9 species of baobab tree, six from Madagascar, two from Africa and one from Australia.
The baobabs biggest enemys are drought, water logging, lightning and elephants.
Baobabs store large volumes of water in their massive trunks...which is why elephants, eland and other animals relentlessly chew the bark during dry seasons.
Baboons and warthogs eat the seedpods, weavers build their nests in the huge branches and barn owls, mottled spinetails and ground hornbills roost in the many hollows The creased trunks and hollowed interiors also provide homes to countless reptiles, insects and bats
The baobab flowers in the dead of night, producing a beautiful, giant  bloom which only lasts for one short day. The fruit is highly nutritious being full of rich antioxidants.
A Valentine's of swans, moonless river:
2 Ls in Vivaldi font ported to snowblindness
(hierotippexed), who glid down
the wrong discipline, along the Stygian
stave of the  Atonality headlining
after the Tracheotomy of the Spheres.

A Valentine's of swans, moonless river:
parabolic break action of snowman
shotguns, embonpoint tarred & cotton-
wooled, fires white flags. Flags up, starkly
conveyed upon black freshwater,  baggage
scanner at the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

A Valentine's of swans, moonless river:
the periscopes of ghost gnomes' U-boats
taking a gander (no geestimates!) at blackbrush
algae ops of Erebian Naiads. Or Arabian Night
Fever: anaemic Egyptians' one dancemove
cobraing from winged bicep, tricep breast.

A Valentine's of swans, moonless river:
aristocratic mullets scalped & mobsurfing
a revolutionary river of le grand non lavage.
O cob & pen powercouple are giraffe
dove ducks, to the Sovereign as prosaic
as pigeons are to oiks of Eros, me & my bird.
accompanying illustration:
She'd swooshed by on her skates.
He'd seen her in her reflection that day
On his car’s rear view mirror,
For the first time ever.
The new neighbour, was she?

That very night, for the first time ever,
Both happened to be on their respective rooftops.
The clock had just scaled eleven.
Now that they’d seen each other,
Tonight's coincidence sufficed to make way
For a rendezvous every night, thereafter.

He’d often be smiling his sheepish smile,
Panting for breath as he’d reach the terrace
While the clock would strike eleven,
A few heartbeats later.
Oh, but she would often already be there,
A teasing laughter on her lips,
A childlike smile in her eyes.
Relief followed by exultation in his heart.

And so, they’d be standing a lane's length apart,
United under the zoetic starry sky, every night hence.

You’d wonder, how both were somehow convinced,
That the other still believed
This nightly tryst
Under the sky's roof to be a coincidence.

She'd light cigarette after another.
He'd pretend
To be caressing his pet,
Fast asleep.
Or some such silly thing.

How he’d wish the whiff of smoke from her cigarette
Would drift across to his terrace.
He’d imagine the wafting smoke
That’d emanate as she’d part her lips
To be a peek into her coy desires.
And many such cheesy things.

They hadn't exchanged a word till date.
Oh but they'd exchanged hearts that very first night.
She didn't even know his name yet
She'd wonder if he knew hers’?
'Has it ever mattered?' she'd think.
'I'm better off not knowing her name!'
Thinking a name could define her
Is to be silly', he’d think.

She was at his door one evening,
To hand over a letter,
Mistakenly delivered at her home.
Or so she said. Something he'd happily believed.
She'd slipped her heart along with the letter,
She later happily realized.

The ensuing night lingered
Six and a half cigarettes longer,
The first time ever.

Fifteen evenings gone by since
She wouldn’t be seen.
He stayed for a brief bit on the sixteenth night.
Disappointed less, worried more.
Did she feel this silent encounter
Of their worlds had stayed silent too long?
Words could never suffice, didn't she know?
He went down to his room ruefully.
Oh but she’d reached just the terrace at that instant.

And they thought coincidences could only always favor them.

A few evenings later he saw her.
Not veiled by the sepia-tinted street lights this time.
Nor in the crimson blush of that evening.
Decked in bridal finery
The vermilion vows on her forehead
Staring starkly at him like an exclamation mark.

And you thought coincidences could only always favor us,
Seemed to be the rhetoric she was throwing at him.

That night, his tattered heart
Writhed in dead wakefulness on the rooftop.
Even now, he looks across
At her absence, a presence in itself.
P.S - Two neighbours, who can't keep feeling that it's too soon to meet, to engage in the language of words, and dates. They're too happy, knowing they will see each other across the roof, every night, after the first coincident meet one night. This goes on for months, till she doesn't turn up for a few days, and the day she does muster up the courage to convey to him, that she would be married soon, is the day he turns up too, only to leave a tad bit early. A happy coincidence that they thought they continue turns tragic. Does he know she meant to tell? Does she still think, he'd forgotten her in that fifteen day span, so as to not up on the sixteenth? After all, they'd never exchanged words.
Norman E Carey Jan 2012
A swingset sits in the yard, starkly vacant, silent.
A chair is stationed only feet away—the watchpost of an anxious pepere.
Only days ago I sat there, watching the child of my old age
Swinging, hanging upside down, proving to me and herself that nothing could scare her.
“Watch me,” she commands, daring the gods to do their worst.
All she needs from me is the occasional tribute to her skill.
All I need from her is to bless me with her being.

She is gone now, and there is no help for it.
An empty swing, a useless chair, and the ache of loss.
The swing haunts me with her voice and I listen to it in my mind.
Dante got it wrong.
It isn’t the dead who abandon hope—
Hell is for the living.
Bayley Sprowl Dec 2012
It's always your words that undress me.
Sobriquets, honeyed and multiple--
neck slowed over by narrator's
pale parlance. It's always my hands
that undress you. Motion diverse,
more adept than I expected. My
fingers feel separate and strange.
Our skin feels so starkly the same.
Dialectic crack in monologue,
made soft by the hot tongue of discourse.
Your open vowels morning-like, balmy.
I want you phonetically, fondly.
Our languages, various as Babel's.
We touch like snakes in love.
Delaney Jun 2015
It's been a few years,
since I picked up that blade
determined to slice the sadness
out of my viens.
Ridges and indentions
of scar tissue
litter my body.
Yet, even now,
when I get really down,
I still want to add to my collection.
I am starkly aware
that it's not right,
not at all; but,
nothing else works quite as well.
perhaps it's a punishment, too.
One that I deserve.

Cydney Something Jun 2019
"I don't want you to think I'm racist. I love black people! I just hate *******."
Now, you will not believe how many people have said this to my face.
That they smile, thinking themselves so eloquent and clever,
Illustrates a problem to me much larger than the hatred of a race.

My tongue stays. I wouldn't want my "angry ******" to show her teeth.
She would ask if the color or the speech or the level of poverty made the black,
Or the ****** or the ***** or the **** or monkey or beast.
She may be eloquent and clever herself, but those white ears would never hear that.

We are conditioned to be blind and deaf and loudly ignorant to reality.
The rich and powerful have made us starkly numb to our own folly and pride,
So that we may believe ourselves to be indignant most righteously,
While we unconsciously hate all that is different, opposed, other, outside.

But I will be the same human with all my eloquence and cleverness, pride and folly,
Whether I am seen as "black" or "******" or maybe simply just "Cydney"
Derrek Estrella Oct 2018
It’s all very good
To not be happening
To be pedestrian
In the eye of the skin

What are you giving
To the fee of propriety?
Or maybe you’re taking
No loans for your own belief

You’re not looking
If you’re already there
Standing crooked
On decadent hardware

Tapeworms and toe shoes
Comments on twitches
Raking a living
On dollar-long pitches

Sustainable notebooks
Planning uncertainty
A humble room
For an affirmed reality

You’re not looking
If you’re already there
Standing crooked
Begging for a chair

Your mind is pretty
As a cog of the city
It may lark starkly
In a house that ages a-
-Loans to live up-
-Tunics promise the sky-
Domain disappoints you

Periodic shifts,
Assured to swallow you in splendour
Nothing engineered
Is best left well-explained

Standing for a chair
                         Standing for a chair
                                                  Standing for a chair
                                                           ­                 Standing for a chair
    Standing for a chair
                              Standing for a chair
                                                       Standing for a chair
                                                           ­                     Standing for a chair
         Standing for a chair
                                  Standing for a chair
                                                           Standing for a chair
                                                           ­                       Standing for a chair

Since time’s morning we all have seen the tower
In the far corners of each eye—
Its shape, its presence, was constant
And dark and cold as its steel pillars,
Which linked the earth to the aloft
As it left its hidden peak among the clouds.

How light and fragile seemed those clouds,
Yet how strong, as they embraced the pillars
Far above the common watcher’s eye
As if their undulations were what kept aloft
The gray, unmoving tower,
The only scaffolds to hold it constant.

But nothing in the cosmos is truly constant,
And nothing in the earth stays perpetually aloft,
Even the pillars
Of the groaning tower
As the wisps of the clouds
Began to pull away from the reach of the tower’s eye.

And how it burst, that eye
Of the suddenly trembling tower
As, from their place aloft
The fading clouds
Heard a promise of “I have always been constant”
From the hoarse vibrations of the mercury pillars.

But the wisps could not be persuaded, and the pillars
Erupted in a terrible shriek as the clouds
Strove to leave the tower
With a peaceful message as the constant
Jettisons from the tower’s erupting eye
Could not remain aloft.

Built, shaped, constructed to hold itself aloft,
No one considered that the tower could not stay constant
Upon the dissipation of those clouds—
First fell, screaming, the eye
And then the buckled, madly clawing pillars,
And so collapsed the tower.

And still the tower’s wreckage remains at the edge of our eye,
The constant twisting, twitching of the pillars,
As they feebly reach to the aloft and the faded strands of the clouds.


This is the tower’s story,
Witnessed by my truthful kin,
Such as it was told to me.

A desperate pursuit made he
After his love, to save him
This. Is the tower’s story

More than it had seemed to be?
What’s about’s seldom within,
Such as it was told to me.

Even though an elegy,
A tale of truth beneath skin
This is. The tower’s story

Is harsh memento mori
For a soul who’s always been—
Such as it was told to me.

Was such a thing meant to be?
Surely, not to have been seen.
This is the tower’s story,
Such as it was told to me.


I heard recountings of profound despair,
About a man with eye and tongue of brass.
The day before, I’d seen his icy stare;
The evening next, his story came to pass.

How strange, distressing, were those words to hear
Of how his love accepted death’s kind call;
The screaméd pleas and how he drew her near—
Unheard, unseen, his anguish wrings my soul.

The image of his twisted countenance
Within my mind—his visage turned to red—
Invades my every thought. What cruel romance,
How he caressed her hands as she lay dead.

And how that icy stare seems now to me—
What once was brass is naught but mercury.


He would do all to be with her
As he pleaded,
Clinging to her arms
Like a lost child.

And he pleaded,
His eyes streaming
Like a lost child’s,
And told her,

“Is my screaming
Not enough to stop you?”
And, bolder,
“I can’t let you go.”

“What’s enough to stop you
From telling me,
‘I can’t let you know?’”
She starkly asked.

“You’re telling me
What I have never said;
Be stark—we basked
In trust and love;

What have I ever said
That burns enough to turn
Our trust and love
To pain and death?”

“The worlds so roughly turn—
We could not stop the dread machines
Of pain and death
As long as we live.”

He could not stop the dread machines—
Clinging to her arms,
How long could he live?
He would do all to be with her.
All four of these poems are written from the perspective of a fictional poet about two other characters of mine. Technically a school assignment, these will be very helpful for the story itself.
jide oyediran Mar 2013
When there is no hope
When everything seems hopeless
When there is no reason 2 laugh
When everybody around u desert u
When the dark is starkly dime
When the moon refuses 2 comeout at nite
When d bulb refuses to bring light
When d cloud is pregnant

Then came a ray of lite
Then the moon comes out shining bright
Then the stars follows winking
Then the cloud burst in laughter
Which brings HOPE
Michael W Noland Dec 2012
Scooped some loops of troops with their heads offed, scoffed, at the loss with the cost from my own losses, in lawless, flawlessness accosted by pentecostal brothels hugging it out with the clout of the lord.

Oh lord! what am i talking about, as I am doubting the amount i can pile on my brow, and not break a sweat, playing my stakes to their best, and jettin, while i'm still a veteran in the scrambled lettering of my iris, spreading viruses, inside us, uniting us, to Set...

The scores straight with annihilation on my mind, and an island for them to find, my station at the shrine, to launch codes in kind, to your denied existence of the lines in time, cruxing the fluxing path of inevitability, crossing out the math of probability, clearly seeing everything that once be, bettered. Be. Been, about to be, grinning again.

Because it tickles when i'm stoopid, but im snoopin steadily through your blueprints, moving amongst your movements, and proving that you will lose this, in clueless, fluid, drizzling down the drain with your social stains, still straining the veins to my brain, trying to maintain one sane morsel of a reason not to **** you, i love you, but booooom.

Making room for my assumed solitude, in astute rudeness to the rudimentary business of idiots, stand back i got this, and when im into it, there are no limits to what my digits do, in true blinding hoops of halos bent, in unrelenting wrenching of a stint, of greed, but having everything needed, and settling for sanity.

If humanity had a hand, it may demand a stance in return for a burn that's graphed away, in firm concerns made in forgotten stays of my patience, ghost writing in payments, to my slavers, giving blood to my saviors, saving us from the lesson.

I merely choose to burn in the learning curve, that curbs my satisfaction with distractions, with past tense presentations, intending to mend in venting of the clues to the other news askew ..

In smoking away the blues to hues of happy, haphazardly, chappy in the final hour of sappy nights, of goodnightless fights in righteous might, of my mandatory story telling, of the felling of the fireworks in finale fires that burned, until the uncle died, and smirked from the casket of a bizerk card shark, barking from the starkly stripped semblance of a resistance to tyranny

Its tearing me up to think, that i care, laying bare, to the bruises, these intrusive abusers use to move this rock from its plot, and stop, a catastrophe..

But i'm mastering.

Blythe Cassidy Jul 2014
feeling nothing is not
not many are born
without joy or
emotions are not switches,
to be turned on and off
at one's will.
they are lenses of colored glass
held up to the eye
through which the world
starkly contrasts itself.

to rip ones emotions out
of their wholly natural forms
is to become less than earthworms.
a desolate wasteland pumping blood
would be a generous comparison
to the void inside an emotionless body.

eyes are dull without feeling
and lips move to soundless words
because nothing has meaning.
a gray world for a gray soul
moving with great effort
towards the nothingness ahead.
Sorry about the demeanor of this, I just had to get it out.
Amanda Feb 2014

Coincidental; little mistakes
that make us
oh, so very

A stroke or a little flick of ink that makes that dizzying difference
between what your lips wants to say
what is starkly conventional.

But trust me,
when I write
I love you
at the
very end of
coffee-stained and red lipped marked

It isn't quite a mistake.

Hush those slightly alarmed eyes.

Perhaps, it's just my white heart painted red's
Hi Hi Hi!
How are you today, lovely?
I hope you enjoyed this little daydream I've written into words.
P.S This one is for you, Sabina.
maybella snow Dec 2013
real councillors
over used
to people who
understand more
than people

dark corners
with mysterious
invisible eyes
visible to those
unlucky enough
to see them
with eyelids

light traces
and patterns
lacing bodies
with streaks
of red
and stains
of pain

toilet bowls
lent over
by overbearing
starved and
of bones

shaking hands
firmly planted
against brick
cracked bruises
harshly noticeable
and starkly

dried tears
only means
they were
wet once
Marshal Gebbie Apr 2010
Howling Gale of Winter moment
Blossom pink from cherry tree,
Driving snow which blankets all
Hot Summer sunset glows for me.
Parched and hassled hens in shadow
Scratch the sand to find the cool,
Starkly solid ice in blueness
White and freezing skating pool.
Green and turquoise in the sunlight
Brilliant hills of verdant shawl,
Autumn tones cascade in colour
Silently the dry leaves fall.
Surging surf parades the beaches
Roiling up the shelly sands,
Lightning strike on green pine reaches
Baking sunshine warms and tans.
Windswept on the dry Sahara
Silently the tree ferns drip,
Alpine streamlets splash in torrent
Hot and parched dry grasses flick.
Honeyed scent in orange blossom
Fills the morning air with bees,
Pollen on the air carousing
Noses twitch and often sneeze.
Globally the seasons vary
Hemispheres of colour thrown,
Glorious in shade and texture
Flavoured by aroma’s own.
All enticing motes of pleasure
Each engaging jolts of joy,
Layerings of seasonal treasure
Mother earth’s artistic ploy.

Victoria Park Tunnel
13 April 2010
TD Aug 2015
crying in the backseat
a heart that's breaking

the swooping arch
black-pitch wings
face pressed to the window
his beak starkly glinting

"my little crow with moccasins for slippers"

when eyes shown dark and I danced
hoping for a glimpse of rain
and the raven and the crow
were my imaginary friends

cancer swallowed him whole

with relish it finished him off with an exaggerated smile
I and my stomping feet

lingered visions of a feathered crown
dimmed in the shadow
his candle wavering--faded

now whispered dances splay
against a flaming memory
with poignant pangs that
tremble under down cast eyes

The crow is circling--
my paragon in
blue obsidian skies.
Beth Ivy Jan 2014
caustic cleansers eating away at
caked on ash and peeling dead skin.
silent snowfall smothering wholly
dried up earth, a new, unmarked grave.

dribbling paint slathered thickly onto
walls erasing nicotine stains.
smooth-as-silk milk blotting out brightly
the emptiness of a clear glass.

merciful fluid starkly removes
sins of a pen lost from its thought.
What comes to blank out, smother, dissolve
the murky shadows in my head?

— The End —