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Cristina Dean May 2016

something calls out to each one of us.
on hot nights like these I hear
the sounds of the ocean
the pulling and expelling, the cold pressure,
the black magic of the deep sea


i stepped out onto the hot concrete
walking towards the corner store for
the sky in the Northwest was streaked
with colored ribbon of
neon orange and hot pink
above and behind me the sky was
a dusty blue
i thought of you
how you'd see the world tonight, how you're taking in the view and
you're okay there alone
far away from me.
i am alone and tonight is the kind of solitude i crave from life.

i am alone and i think of you and wish for nothing.

you are a part of me always. how can you not?
you are my love
you are the warm fuzz
and nothing that I love is without you.
i speak to you through
the falling lilacs and the bleeding sunsets.
your voice in the gut of the night.

the sighs between words
the darkness between breaths

my life
this moment
caught with you
in a silk web.
am i ee Sep 2015
newly fallen yellow leaf
suspended in mid-air

passers by
absorbed in their heads

missing this magic
missing her gifts.

Mother Nature
her creatures
her elements

collaborating together
every moment
bringing art forth so new

gravity and
season Fall
a spider's strong silk thread
and all

leaving this is small
for all to share.

of which
no other
can compare.
catching the magic & wonder in everyday ordinary....
To:  A Flaming Heart
            Of the Hedonistic School

From:  A Slow-Burn Refugee
                Of the Broken-Back-Pack-Mule


I've had dreams by day?  
That brought the nightmares back.
?In the daylights exposure it was dark?  
When the negative light was bright.
In the sea of people
I was the floating remains?
Of a Great White's meal.?  
On the lonely roads of thought?

My mind was in gridlock.
Comforting memories were suspended
Over a psychic black hole
By jagged and rusted

Medieval-type surgical tools.
My remaining senses
Were nailed to a cross-section
Of psychically atrophied grey matter

Along neural pathways
Guarded by gladiator-type tormentors
Left with nothing
But the stinging desire to be freed

From a curse that had to be cured
And the hell of searching for a cure
When I was convinced there wasn’t one.?
The powers that be come with force

To quell primal lusts & desires
Forbidding you of them
As they seductively
Dangle them before your eyes
Until you are so frustrated and unfulfilled
That you no longer
Care for your world.?  
This cracked glass remains empty
Even though it is constantly being filled
Then spilled or leaked on the floor
Until you learn to lap it up
Like the lapdog that you have become

For their amusement.
You remain with a love for freedom  
But your cage is so large?  
That you think you are free

Lost in societal fantasy.
You think for a while
That these fantasies are real ?  
Until you come to your senses that aren’t

As you join other fools?  
In comfort that you're not the only
Broken-back pack-mule.?  
But in spite of it all?

And in the face of them all
Don't let these birds of prey                                                          
An­d powers that be
Deprive you of what they can't see

In that hidden corner
Of what is still untouched
The real you
Uninfected by the world.?  

Take care of your spiritual affairs.
Don't let the global beast
And your primal hissing forces
Make you be your own pallbearer.

--Daniel Irwin Tucker
M Salinger Jul 2018
A moment.

A line between
& defiant

holding within in it
the tenderness of our gaze

The night calls me
while sleep escapes,
to show me the truth
that day

it calls deep within
my being,
like you

it resonates with
my darkness,
like you

Will you stay with me,
for a moment

of real honesty
& if you want,

The valley of space there,
& between us
pulling me in,
like you

a moment of freefall
& endless endings
there to be

where we find
a way
to be suspended
in the
warmth between
you & I

I stand
on the sharpest edge,
below, the water surges
over the rock face
deep teal and chilling
a reminder that
can also be

like you.

In awe and wonder
I'm trapped
in these
Inspired by the great beauty of British Columbia and how it's grandeur and imposing nature can be reminiscent of imperfect love
zebra Jul 2018
it was a dark dance
of an immovable body
as she was taken by the throat,
death, causing stupendous distortions
and entrancements of lunar landscapes
she reeled pirouettes between smothering
and seeing through a miraculous inner eye
deepening her sense of nothingness
as if pickled in a jar,  suspended in
held buoyant
where there is no reason for anything
moveless in a veiled corridor
inhabiting innerness, a raven fog
her ******* wet with the scent of fear and ***
she fell through the earth
into the infernal arms of

his tremulous kisses
a thousand glittering eyes
she could see through
Tom Spencer Apr 18
holding my breath

as the crow floats down

before landing
wing tips fluttering

talons extended

for the top
of the powerline pole

Tom Spencer © 2019
I ,
yes I the traveller have long seeked the sun ,
moon and the clouds yet they again have slipped my gaze and only
darkness covers my eyes .
The story teller of the great God of  “IAm “ about his tales should I
tremble as I listened with many others in the great hall ,
Speaking of a God who one day even his patience will like sand
drift from his loving blood stained hands .

Begone with you for even i have to sleep and find comforts that no man should seek ,
let alone find , for the monsters of the deep loneliness , bitterness ,
and pride leave me captive in chains .

Sage if you see him tell him what might have been ,
and sorrys only purpose is love.

Please don’t burden me again with you’re story’s of woe my darkness is full of tempting visions and to sleep is to indulge .

What’s wrong with me my eyes are dim when they used to love the light and fair grounds with hymns and songs ,
tales from the book ,
the story tellers I must find and end this Blessed night .

Chain mail of Norman men rise from the river ,
skeletons of my past rattle like snakes in my head .
When in sleep do they arose me and darken my forest in this cold winters night .
Captive only to the light how my soul seeks rest from this
besieged fortress ,
dare I surrender to my foe ?

Holy Spirit freeer of the night thy captors await thee ,
for this tale must end in heaven or hell .
Look again the jailer comes and light once again must set me free .
Terry O'Leary Dec 2016
My chamber teems with tensions, taut, that logic can’t withstand,
fragmenting mental masonry with memories unplanned,
as bitter tears from hazel eyes reduce the stone to sand.

Dim shadows cast by candles flit across the haunted room,
beleaguer apparitions, pale, that stalk me through the gloom,
usurping purloined purple forms forgotten ghosts assume.

The tick-tock clock of time rewinds within the mirrored hall
and pendula suspended, pause, while creatures creep and crawl
on images of effigies, through memories that maul.

The madness of the midnight mass! Perchance it interferes
with spiders spinning spiral threads which bridge the chandeliers
when weaving minds' discarded coils to silken souvenirs.

Reflections graced the vacant gaze of idols as they fled!
Their futile, feigned, far-flung farewells now hammer in my head,
marooned like frozen silhouettes in footprints of the dead.

My lovers smile through marbled masks before they turn their backs
(like furnace flames deserting ash or phantoms fleeing cracks)
with faded, painted, wrinkled faces nightmares carve in wax.

Sometimes a gust disturbs the dust and secrets reappear,
which dance in silver slippers through the dusk of yesteryear -
it's not the screams that drown my dreams, but whispers which I fear.

The hangman posts a letter home, his message indiscreet
about the vestal ****** in the café (where we meet
to savour tea and crumpets) down a one-way dead-end street.

The rapping and the tapping at my tattered, time-worn door
repeat reports of migrant myths, of tales of nevermore,
strung far across a sullen sea, most shipwrecked near the shore.

Forget-me-nots, enwrapped in rain the while a wan wind blows,
recall the faintly fickle fates this drifter undergoes –
alone, unknown with tracks interred in teardrop undertows.

My feet, no longer tied or tethered, traipse within a squall
pursuing profiles long forsaken, buried in the sprawl
of spectres spread amongst the dead, some tattooed to the wall.

At times, the belfry towers toll of anarchy and gin,
of smoke and mirrors, rolling dice and other things akin,
impaled on forks down byway roads, and things that might-have-been.

The skies outside, beyond the night with shutters shut and drawn,
begin to glow on shattered shapes escaping ’fore the dawn
as clouds undone beneath the sun release this captive pawn.
Left to these eon days.
Welcome to wonderland, I say.
An ethereal eternity in a moments gaze,
To ponder beyond the barriers of time and space.

For a split-second reality flickers;
Beautiful in it's deliverance,
Nocturnal firelight on shamanic sands,
Mescaline transcendent communion with the land.
Some daze inspiration takes me.

Suspended here in this celestial haze,
A clairvoyant glance into the eye of the maze.
The cleansing radiance of our empyreal ways;
Left in this aeon daze.
CA Guilfoyle Jan 2016
We are of the ocean
salt water green, lime and seaweed
clinging and threaded, verily suspended
in the far off edges, ebbing unseen
steeped in luminous moons, impossibly colored
a darkness, plumbing ageless depths of sea
strung with opulent pearls, swallowed by fields of sand
a light discovered in the shoal shimmering lands.
Robert C Howard Nov 2016
A halo of transfigured light.
     spanned the hills and autumn gold
of scores of aspen groves
     basking in the morning sun.

But what is this thing we call a rainbow?
     For all our science talk of vapor,
refraction and angle of the sun
     we surrender still in willing captivity
to its beauty, mystery and myth.

Rainbows beguile by their fleeting rarity
      as ephemeral as life itself -
temporal blessings suspended in time
      unintended and undeserved,
spectral bridges between here and there -
       between what is and what should be.
Finality on display,
Now, later, again;
Ever, where, when.
Lands break,
Tides rise;
Skies collapse,
Stars lie;
Reality is bent,
Time is rend;
The gods ascend,
As suns end:
Suspended radiance,
As worlds end.
I ,
yes I the traveller have long seeked the moon ,
the stars and the sun ,
often they have slipped my gaze ,
now only a blanket covers my eyes ( blinded by the sun )

Have you met the story teller of the great ‘ I am ‘ ?
of his tales should I tremble ,
in his halls the lost do not seek ,
the sick and poor enter his halls with praise .
For even this Gods patience will one day like sand fall from his blood stained hands onto beaches castles were built  .

Now begone with you for even I must sleep ,
and find comforts no man should wish .
For the monsters of the deep have found me ,
Lust ,pride , bitterness and fear .

Look my jailer comes with chains you can hear that drag down the passage on this dark satanic night .

Sage if you see him tell him what might have been ,
and sorrows only purpose is love .

Are you still there ?
Dam what’s wrong with my eyes ?
I used to visit the fairground ,
Preachers like Wolves used to say ‘ come this way ‘
‘ come that for a shilling , for a crown ‘.

The musics stopped ,
I can’t hear the music and what of the great hall ?
The story teller I must find on this blessed night .

Now a chain mail of Norman men rise in my sea of despair ,
they like skeleton snakes rattle like memories in my head .
Surrender or capture the light ?

Holy Spirit my demons confront me and darken my night ,
for this must end in heaven or hell I bid it the light .
Andrew Jun 2017
These optical illusions
Create an optimal confusion
When eyes are a welcome intrusion
To the brain's inevitable conclusion

We stared into the mystic mirror
I witnessed everything I ever wanted in life
All you witnessed was just two people standing there
The transparency you cast upon me
Reminded me of how the plumes of **** smoke
Were never as thick as my problems
And as those clouds left my mouth and dispersed into the air
I saw your image
Preserved in briefness

It's a shame how my magician's mind
Summons smoke and mirrors
Nobody else believes me
But magic is the only way to explain you
The way you turned me invisible
Was spectacular
Your methods of sawing me in half
Certainly weren't natural
And your teleportation demonstration
Left me suspended in ice
So I guess I'm to Blaine
For the mirrors I erected
And the truth they reflected
Because now I'm lost
In what I refuse to call a funhouse
As I search frantically for some ancient tomb
That might reveal your brilliant incantations
Attempting to ignore the horrid revelation
That every spell I learned
Had been based in your arcane aura
And all the power I had gained
Had been based in your enchantment

I want a magician
Not an illusionist
So what does it mean when your illusions are so magical?
our hands are like flowers
eaten by a fox
we cut off our clothes
to make room for the world
and disguised our souls in nothing
feelings suspended we rear-ended the world
stood upon bridges waving at girls
shreds of starlight
reflect the falling carriages
sadness and birth are beyond your marriages
same story told throughout the eons
our personal feelings are diluted in the sea
just as we could no longer hold on
our shadows found the ground
and we floated down to safety
M Solav Sep 2018
Oh it's all hanging threads,
Hanging ligaments with drops of red:
Vines without poles - flesh without bones.

Events roll out in scarlatine flashes:
Eyes in crowd flap down their eyelashes
And in silence the suspense grows strong;

The bricks are set, the façade is over,
But from within, the house still lacks a structure:
One penetrates rooms without walls.

A memory from the depth is brought up,
A storyline used to link so many dispersed dots:
Leaves are flying free as the childhood tree rots...

Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging sources, hanging roots:
Scars over the sun revolving in loops.

And the conduit narrows down,
Leaks a single bolt of light to glow:
An empty room as throne and crown

And a thorn, pain escaping death,
A frown of estrangement in the face
Of all that's known - what's most unknown.

Spectators stare deceptively
While promises of relief are spared;
They too are suspended in the air...

Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging loose, hanging dead;
Waiting for the artisan to ease the noose.
Written in October 2017.
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