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patty m Feb 2015
Silly fools,
touching the planchette
as it invades the haunts of spirits and demons
their dangerous interaction
pointing to blackened letters
or the answers yes or no.

Open gateway something relentless creeps to the surface
unbeknownst to anyone.  
Do they think this is a game, this summoning?

Bluesman, playing his guitar
sings about a shadowy man
on a dark road and the bargains he makes.
Moonless skies and rumbling trains
a strange twisting in guts
as a crows caw spreading shiny wings.

Shadows, the long road is filled with shadow,
filigreed limbs darkening fleeting time and the trains with
their black smoky smudge muffling secrets.

A strange man turns up, like a carney in a traveling show
to show us a frightening future.
Spreading prophesies of horrible events along with the demise of millions, with demons gnawing human flesh.
Then too there was the promise of the dead rising;
exhumed bodies, an army of zombies marching.

Old men smoke their cigarettes, lungs crackling
in phlegmy coughs, rheumy eyes filled with pain
as they watch the children **** in frenzied dance
their heads spinning clockwise. . .  
The train chugs off in the distance
as the last illusion crumbles into a dark and rotting hole.

We no longer see the stranger.
as the song comes to an end,
yet disquieting things skitter on the edge of reason
as they slither through our fear.
Up ahead looms a fiery god staying
trajectories of doom and damnation,
while the Bluesman strums his old guitar
on a ghost train going nowhere.
PoserPersona Aug 2018
The concrete drum
beats two steps;
their sound signals
dear freedom

The cricket hum
drowns the day
and instills a
tranquil numb

The bare breeze
strums leaves and all
and breaks the heat
in welcome

The tonic sum
a blessed song;
allowing one
to triumph
marla Dec 2018
All alone,
Sitting there in her pain,
She strums a guitar
And smokes away the day.
Phone calls come in
Steaming with disdain.
She's broken now,
Her heart's stop beating again.

Out and back home,
Rushed away to the ER.
No one comes to visit,
Their jobs are all too far.
All alone,
She thinks it's time to die.
Her last words shown:
"It isn't Suicide if you cry."
JayceeJellies Jun 2015
As I sing along to the strums that I play,
I smile and pause to write down another way,
To say how I'm feeling. Like any other day.
And during this time in the middle of the night,
You come to my mind, I write about you all the time.
I'm sorry I can't help it, There's really nothing to it.
The words just slip right out,
You're the one thing on my mind right now.
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
Blind Willie Johnson strums six strings a day
He drinks with the woman who taught him to play
He spells out his secrets in the songs that he sings
And breathes his life onto six rusty strings
Blind Willie Johnson brings home the blues
Blind Willie Johnson will wail the blues to you

The brothel he grew up in is tearing down the walls
He's got so many memories of those smokey halls
His mama could be there or she could be dead
He's got no pictures, just anecdotes instead
Blind Willie Johnson said he don't know a thing
Except for the truth in the blues that he sings

Blind Willie Johnson ain't really blind at all
He's just got those gray eyes from years of alcohol
He stares into the smoke of a Friday night crowd
Who stare back at him as his stories ring out
Blind Willie Johnson doesn't cover up a thing
Listen to his pain in the blues that he sings

"Blind Willie Johnson" reads the graveyard stone
Under the blanket of the sky, Willie rests alone
Though his voice is lost underneath the ground
The world will never forget Blind Willie's sound
Blind Willie Johnson sang the way he felt
He never complained about the hand he was dealt
Allison Nov 2017
Unmoved by your arrival from the west coast,
ten thousand little things are different.

It’s October and the trees are on fire:
a forge that you won't notice, 'til you're gold.

Your Kicks don’t leave footprints on these cobbled streets;
even the children have old, leathery hands.

Try to paddle-board the Eno and the bass go belly-up:
that river’s for scattering ashes and making moonshine.

All they sell at Aldi is ethnic shampoo,
so now your hair twists like the roots you’ve lacked

'til now, because all you’ll ever need is two hands:
for prayer, and work.

Life moves on like a cigarette’s drag,
while somewhere Hope’s fiddle strums;

Take off your headphones and
go put your ear to an oak.
Joie Yin Sep 2018
Life is like a melody
Strumming to a love song
He who always smiles gently
Begins to hum along.

Sitting at one corner
She looks at him shyly
He sings his heart to her
Someone he loves dearly.

Coffee is their favorite
To share with each other
One in each episode
Of their love story together.

He strums while waiting there
Brown teddy bear by his side
Flowers placed everywhere
For proposal to his future bride.

He nervously make his vow
Asks for her hand in marriage
She kisses him on his eyebrow
Crowd cheers as they embrace.

©joieyin
Happy International Coffee Day! :)
Evelyn Rose Aug 2017
This sound makes my vertebrae vibrate
Every unshaven hair stands to attention  
At her voice
She strums my heartstrings
And her guitar.
And sings again to the void
Of people  
Never truly paying any attention
No more than sufficient
to toss in pennies
Pounds remaining in purses, to pursed lips
Whilst they continue the train station conga to their destination.

I
cannot help but hear.
You resonate like my first radio
The hum of home
That initial taste of music
Potent
Powerful
Like this woman
Brave in her solitude on the platform.

I wish they would listen.
Lyn-Purcell Jul 2018
When I think of all the tears and turbulence life has
given me, it sometimes makes me hard for
me to forgive this world

I usually would find peace in the solitude
and my waters would be still. I'd
honestly prefer that than to
feel alone amidst this
sea of life

But now, I've learned to dance with the
naiads by the Springs of Many Lives.
With her hand in mind, the life-stream
strums and begins to form rings

Each ripple made is a bond that
grows stronger in time
Each one beaming
with many hues

Now I see, the true beauty of life.
The waters will run hot, cold and
warm. We all will dance
different dances.

But the Naiads show me the beautiful
bonds I have made with my fellow
Kings and Queens on HP from all
walks of life who wear their
crowns with pride.

That is a life I yearn for.

For my diadem to be made of
pure starlight.

For me to have such understanding
makes me shed true
tears of joy.
I'm back! And I'm not feeling as stressed as usual so I'll be able to finally share my work! My course has been crazy! A lot has happened today. Today we were supposed to pick someone from the whole group and pay them a compliment on what they're great at - and surprisingly, people did pick me (I got like 2 or 3 compliments regarding my bubbly energy and passion as well as my knowledge!) I'm still flattered and surprised, so it meant alot to hear that.

This poem is inspired by Sue's 'Naiads poem! ^-^
Got more coming along the way!
Thanks so much, everyone!
Lyn ***
beauty is born
torn and tired
tirelessly turning 
into itself
she unfurls 
her long and shapely legs 
like a chain of
tibetan prayer-flags
waving to the Sun
immediately she begins 
to stage the play
that penetrates the heart 
with strong arms
and a silken mane 
the color of sea-spray 
her neck is the foam filled ocean 
and her ******* 
are coral reefs that protect
the polyps that cluster 
in her unfathomable depths 

modern day education
is beyond biased 
and most definitely broken
impermanent knots 
are haphazardly tied
to bind the minds
of dancing children
short-term memory
instigates a fleeting vision
some call it autism 
others prefer anarchy
a fear of growth 
or is it really indecision
that when you can no longer respond 
to life's most pertinent questions
with anything other 
than no thank you
eventually every syllable uttered 
becomes the stuttered sound 
of overly clichéd ambivalence
that frequently masks 
itself as wisdom


despite our higher self's 
best wishes
such limitless awareness
our very own bodhichitta
slowly becomes 
an interminable trickster
also known as Ego 
which incessantly repeats

phrases like 
i’ve earned these blessings
i've learned these lessons
aeons ago
therefore it is best to
meditate and inspect one's thoughts
on a daily basis
before all these shadows 
have a chance to grow and become
funeral wreaths
still the ego says
oh what fun it is to look at
the shimmering shawls strewn 
haphazardly like wedding veils
upon our watery souls
as if you and I were a couple of
Jackson ******* paintings


to heat the flame
inside the
limitless
space of your soul
you cannot
deny your heart
the swamps, vines, rocks and peaks
it seeks for eternity
the ancient trees drink light
and breathe out the heaviness
of splintered sight 
into the ephemeral night
divine breath
is calling you home
sounding trumpet flowers
daily...

gathering falling branches
and transforming sticks of palo santo
into star-studded candles
which permanently leave 
their ashen and iridescent marks 
like tattooed scars
upon the painted face of the sky

while angels fly
with flaming bundles of hair
weaving silent smoke signals
rising up from warm coals
the spiraling eyes of the spirits 
are alight with the embers of love
which impress their radiant etchings 
upon the daguerreotype of darkness' 
burning eyeballs


faceless in the heat
grief is asleep and dreaming
of justice
a curse on those 
who evade their emptiness
in culturally appropriated places
harboring...

regret like a fugitive 
such frustration that i wept
for the lack of fruitfulness 
******* the chords of love
slowly and gently she strums
her weeping guitar 
as if arrows and yarn
were woven into her arms
like baby blankets and bundles of cotton
naked and forlorn 
her hair worn short
still she swore that she could not rest
until all had sweat their prayers
through hollow caverns and windy staircases
her vision forever strengthened
by a ceaseless determination

balancing multiple lovers
is never an ideal situation
hearts broken and freedom falling
toppling down from heaven’s peak 
into these dusty old basements
just as we suspected
everything is resurrected
to time’s smiling amazement
both old ones and new ones
are reflections of truth
juniper sours
and blooming flowers 
of golden waterlilies 
poppies and sprigs of amaranth
jaundiced and porous
loquacious are the stages 
that we must pass through 
on our way to becoming 
dew drops and frozen apples


remediating all this concrete nonsense 
would be to our immediate economic advantage
these tragic promissory notes 
where landed lords of wealth 
have repeatedly replicated themselves 
upon trillions of meaningless pieces of paper
their stoically printed faces 
should not be readily trusted
nor traded or exchanged
for life's necessities
they are not only useless but truly 
dangerous
as they often claim
that they are only passing through
yet as each new day dawns
they are forever inclined 
to once again dine with you anew


bold in flesh and sinuous
only a moment before
the Sun shall bloom and whisper
with sleepy eyes
into yarrow flavored water
the secret of not knowing
the ancient face
of grandmother Moon speaks
through alabaster teeth
so intent on biting through sheets of
dawn’s iridescent sky
that the sounds of her words
are instantly drowned out 
by her tears
yet if you listen 
really closely like an owl
to the chorus of the night
you can clearly 
hear the forest echo

i love you
Paul Marfil Aug 2018
The afternoon is telling itself
in the way we are gathering

sand between our toes,
crushing sea shells into

tiny pieces of chalk, gashing
the shoreline and seeking salt

wherever the water drags itself
to forget our footprints like a memory

it never wanted. The last streak
of sunlight falls on us like a lowly

spotlight, the sky a wounded animal
heaving itself into a shade. Behind us

is a river that houses a secret you
never wish to talk about. So we shy

away from its mouth still pouring ***
and tattered petals into the sea.

Here, the wind comes to speak to us
in a cold acoustic — Nick Drake, or

Bon Iver. The strums of a daydream are
undoing your hair. We sink our hands

into the water — our fingers getting cold,
saying it is okay to miss heat. The ocean

is holding us with shy wrists. We tread
quietly in its palms, carefully dropping

the names we've been trying to forget.
Everything gets swallowed up eventually,

even the day. We fall silent, our words
drowned out by a chorus of tides.

Soon, the horizon will raise itself
towards us, and all will be lost beneath it.

And the tides will fold themselves
to meet us once more, blanketing our feet

in the foamy cold. You then tell me how
kicking a wave has become a habit, how

you once thought that one can bring
your anger to whoever hurt you first.

So we welcome the night kicking
each wave that comes to us.

We know the waves will kick us back,
our anger rolling to greet us back, too.
patty m Apr 10
Silly fools,
touching the planchette
as it invades the haunts of spirits and demons
their dangerous interaction
pointing to blackened letters
or the answers yes or no.

A gateway opens and something relentless creeps to the surface
unbeknownst to anyone.  
Do they think this is a game, this summoning?

Bluesman, playing his guitar
sings about a shadowy man
on a dark road and the bargains he makes.
Moonless skies and rumbling trains
a strange twisting in guts
as crows caw on a tombstones, spreading shiny wings

Now the long road ahead is filled with shadow,
filigreed limbs darkening fleeting time and the trains
their black smoky smudge muffling secrets and dulling wits with their clatter.
A strange man turns up to show us a frightening future,
spreading prophesies and a plethora of conjured visions,
a multitude of horrible events along with the demise of millions
with demons gnawing at their flesh.
Then too there is the rising of the dead;
exhumed bodies, an army of zombies marching.

Old men smoke their cigarettes, lungs crackling
in phlegmy coughs, rheumy eyes filled with pain
as they watch the children **** in frenzied dance
their heads spinning counter clockwise. . .  
The train chugs off in the distance
as the last illusion crumbles.

We no longer see the stranger.
as the song comes to an end,
yet disquieting things skitter on the edge of reason
as they slither through our fear.
Up ahead looms a fiery god
a trajectory of doom and damnation,
while the Bluesman strums his guitar
on a train going nowhere.
Shayne Campbell Sep 2018
The space crosses the horizon
Bending but not breaking our bond
For the sun always reaches the earth
Space and time cannot cut our love

Your voice strums the piano cord
Taking me to a place beyond thought
An emissary outside of time
The walls come down and light shines

Your eyes and smile will bring me
A warmth like falling into a dream
Follow your dream of light and rise
For the darkness will never halt your dawn
lick the sky with commas
crimson ribbons
  and shamrock murmurs
   like the crayon scribbles
    of a young child
     electric choir
     strums of colour
    make melody of night
   shifting whispers
  a new language blur
we can only open
our mouths at
Written: April 2019.
Explanation: A simple poem written in my own time as part of Savannah Brown's escapril challenge. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Noah Aug 2018
Noise softens walls of time passed caverns.
Lapsed echoes scathe within its cryptic.
Pensive submergence chants to nothing,
even while it sullenly strums with longing.
This whispering hollow. This versed passage.
Feed me the thoughtless desire I’m amidst,
Such sense brought upon you, one as matter.
Seeming this, just as your name, worthy.
Having been within, some undeniable will.
Warren-Johnson Oct 2018
A country singer strums his guitar as his lyrics leave me swallowing lumps!

“ Sitting in the dark all night fighting shadows,
And the urge to call you up hits me like an arrow.
It ain't the whiskey talking or the loneliness I'm feeling.
It's the memories, all the little things, that keep me from healing.
I'd give up all the days I got left on this earth,
'Cause without you I don't know what they're worth; no.
I'd give it all for you, if you'd let me.
This heart don't have a home without you in it; no.
I'd stand before you, as a man who's been broken.
Truer words never spoken.”

Yeah as if from my pen and only him singing!
I said it before but I can’t help this feeling!
But love you!
I always will!
Gods1son Sep 2018
Hey Girl,
I bet you're a Musician
The sound of your voice strums my ribs
Like the guitar strings
Makes my heart beat
Like the drumsticks

When my phone rings
I can't explain the joy it brings
When you promised to show
I couldn't stop looking through the window

A glimpse of you from afar
Makes my heart skip a beat
That is to say the least
Of how it really feels!

— The End —