Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"suspending" poems
helping the kids with homework• no one told you, was part of the job description paycheck earner a-ok, gruff but tender lover, knowing her special places, building a tree swing, a tree house safe and satisfactory, one the neighbors envy taking them to the hospital for broken arms and chemotherapy, part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable, going to school to give that principal a look that will make him think twice before suspending one of his for defending himself you remember your daddy doing the same for you, forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later the tucking in, the pretense ouch when your end of day scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies, carrying tissues in a toolbox, never heard of, nevertheless done, tho not a memory defining the future inclusive, definitely a learning ability, a likeability doing homework, nuh uh, no way jose, don’t dare let them know how you never got a gold star, always sat in the back row, outta sight, all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery, and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much ain’t exactly his strong suit sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him, know where the on/off computer button hides, the rest is up to them; got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am, how to address humans with respect, i’ll promise them anything but not doing any homework, unless it the kind that that makes “a home work
0
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
helping the kids with homework
helping the kids with homework• no one told you, was part of the job description paycheck earner a-ok, gruff but tender lover, knowing her special places, building a tree swing, a tree house safe and satisfactory, one the neighbors envy taking them to the hospital for broken arms and chemotherapy, part two of the non-routine but a very possible foreseeable, going to school to give that principal a look that will make him think twice before suspending one of his for defending himself you remember your daddy doing the same for you, forgetting to repeat the tar and hiding that came later the tucking in, the pretense ouch when your end of day scratchy beard ruffling the skin of babies, carrying tissues in a toolbox, never heard of, nevertheless done, tho not a memory defining the future inclusive, definitely a learning ability, a likeability doing homework, nuh uh, no way jose, don’t dare let them know how you never got a gold star, always sat in the back row, outta sight, all day dreaming, chemistry rhymes with mystery, and poetry is rhymes needing a big vocabulary which means lots of words for a man who don’t talk much ain’t exactly his strong suit sure, heard of Shakespeare but never met him, know where the on/off computer button hides, the rest is up to them; got no email address, but taught them sir and ma’am, how to address humans with respect, i’ll promise them anything but not doing any homework, unless it the kind that that makes “a home work
Continue reading...
41
poetry builds a  bridge of light extending from our imagination bright suspending across the vastness of the Milky Way highway tonight
0
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
The Milkyway Highway Tonight
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙ A soul welcoming spring, the heart of autumn. Gentle leaves flailing, A scene of pictures falling. Rapture of one's old past, but rain was out of site. The roads were a barren land, as birds did not sing. As days were meek of the night, though I was aware: My seeking heart desires, seasons through the eyes. Sweeping a material dream, fading out of sight. Till it came to life, suspending what bridled me. And everything changed, a future beyond the wall. Luminous summer: vigor upon meadow fields. Her daffodils blooming, heat of the breeze within. Written on the wind, the scarlet tied between our lines. Transcending all is well, an image of a childlike faith. My ought to trust and wait, for now, I'm brave enough to tell.
0
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
Written on the Wind
A quaint little bazaar In the heart of the town Tells a story Of a thousand moments Dal Bazaar as they call it Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know. I have fragments of memorable memories Deep within my mind The smell The intoxicating smell of spices Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives Of Merchants and Beggars Of Buyers and Sellers Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia In the hands of the old ***** The sunlight baking Bags of turmeric. Suspending the scent In the minds of men. Capering clouds of black and grey And the sudden squall Stirring the monotony Of the customary. The pirouette of rain The one that excites the plainest of the plain Painting the whitewash with shades of grey The chalky walls Dust Moist corriander And the relief of earth Conciliating So rewarding For the ruins of the bare sun. This flashback into my soul Where all my senses seem to be so awake. The feel of the wooden veranda Scent so inexpressible My eyes devouring the sunset Tasting the heavens Hearing it all. Feeling it all. Oh the plight of poets The ritual to end a poem. Painful.
0
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
Dal Bazaar
I The shepherds went their hasty way, And found the lowly stable-shed Where the Virgin-Mother lay: And now they checked their eager tread, For to the Babe, that at her ***** clung, A Mother’s song the Virgin-Mother sung. II They told her how a glorious light, Streaming from a heavenly throng. Around them shone, suspending night! While sweeter than a mother’s song, Blest Angels heralded the Savior’s birth, Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth. III She listened to the tale divine, And closer still the Babe she pressed: And while she cried, the Babe is mine! The milk rushed faster to her breast: Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn; Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born. IV Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, Poor, simple, and of low estate! That strife should vanish, battle cease, O why should this thy soul elate? Sweet Music’s loudest note, the Poet’s story, Didst thou ne’er love to hear of fame and glory? V And is not War a youthful king, A stately Hero clad in mail? Beneath his footsteps laurels spring; Him Earth’s majestic monarchs hail Their friends, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh. VI Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! I am a woman poor and mean, And wherefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, That from the aged father’s tears his child! VII A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the sire and starves the son; The husband kills, and from her board Steals all his widow’s toil had won; Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends away All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. VIII Then wisely is my soul elate, That strife should vanish, battle cease: I’m poor and of low estate, The Mother of the Prince of Peace. Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn: Peace, Peace on Earth! The Prince of Peace is born!
0
2.7k
A Christmas Carol
I The shepherds went their hasty way, And found the lowly stable-shed Where the Virgin-Mother lay: And now they checked their eager tread, For to the Babe, that at her ***** clung, A Mother’s song the Virgin-Mother sung. II They told her how a glorious light, Streaming from a heavenly throng. Around them shone, suspending night! While sweeter than a mother’s song, Blest Angels heralded the Savior’s birth, Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth. III She listened to the tale divine, And closer still the Babe she pressed: And while she cried, the Babe is mine! The milk rushed faster to her breast: Joy rose within her, like a summer’s morn; Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born. IV Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, Poor, simple, and of low estate! That strife should vanish, battle cease, O why should this thy soul elate? Sweet Music’s loudest note, the Poet’s story, Didst thou ne’er love to hear of fame and glory? V And is not War a youthful king, A stately Hero clad in mail? Beneath his footsteps laurels spring; Him Earth’s majestic monarchs hail Their friends, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh. VI Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! I am a woman poor and mean, And wherefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, That from the aged father’s tears his child! VII A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the sire and starves the son; The husband kills, and from her board Steals all his widow’s toil had won; Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends away All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. VIII Then wisely is my soul elate, That strife should vanish, battle cease: I’m poor and of low estate, The Mother of the Prince of Peace. Joy rises in me, like a summer’s morn: Peace, Peace on Earth! The Prince of Peace is born!
Continue reading...
56
That brief moment Walking into the shaded apartment to find you reading in flannel And everything in me jumps The camera obscura of my iris snaps, Suspending you in amber light. The tapered elegance of your fingers across a page A glint of Versailles blue-gold eyes And fortified ramparts of your shoulders. I will carry this vestige with me In a petticoat pocket Until we are old And your arms do not lift me as you just did The last strand of your hair is silver And your cheeks sink with age like your father’s. These small gems of youth Of promise To keep in a sleeve until they are needed And the mirrors show reflections we cannot change
0
Aug 23, 2021
Aug 23, 2021 at 9:11 PM UTC
Camera Obscura
Patience (no one noticed) hardly moves its wings Playing the atmosphere's instrument Poetry Plying well-known Instincts.... Sensing lift of thermals curling physics with feather tips Hanging motionless effortless in love... ...its own dynamic unaware Precursor of imagined-- tracing wind taming flight suspending   beauty Soaring in the failing words of winter Slaying energy in disbelief of air
0
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 6:51 PM UTC
Some Birds, Slowly....
trending                            trending                                                        trending the collective's trending is unending this form of trending has proven to be mind bending trending trending                             trending                                                           it's as though the collective's trending won't be ending   nor in the foreseeable future will it be suspending trending                            trending                                                       trending would appear that the trending is always ideally lending to the collective's   trending befriending trending trending                             trending                                                         aren't tales of trending made for those who enjoy the extending of a happy ending trending                            trending                                                        trending
0
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC
Happy Ending Trending (Monorhyme)
Under this silky whiteness, Cloaking a hominid likeness. This frosty awareness, This thought-suspending numbness. Dare I lift this veil? Dare I solve this blanched myst’ry? Dare I expel disbelief? Dare I ***** anticipation’s hope? The whispers of curiosity, The desire to make visible, The familiar face of serenity, Render the boundary risible. Under that shameful shroud, (The face is familiar no more, Serenity submits to Torment.) Finality abounds.
0
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
UNDER THE SHROUD
I place my bet on strings pulled by the sun. crows in their black plumage are silhouettes suspending mustache sunset. my pockets are empty— no lint, crime or cash. I am broken but will not run into the darkness. no let me maunder with the ephemera of passing day. I need a friend to talk to.
0
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 4:22 PM UTC
outside the casino
I'm F A L L I N G Through thin air, Nothing is suspending me. Falling. Falling No one notices. And then, I'm gone. Fallen
0
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 2:38 AM UTC
Free Falling
They asked me to define how hours could see lovers calling out for water when they turned life's wheel of loveliness. So, I drew an outline of burning fire around the flower of miracles growing in between a love that knows no rest. I showed them letters containing precious memories as reminders of horizons with rising answers only considered by the sea. Then, I became a still small voice and one by one showed them blank pages now filled with moments love had somehow called out to be free. Hours stirred two hearts suspending them inside their own music where they flew on wings of delight in quiet ecstasy. Until time ached to feel no more and could only send in hours to fill those blank pages with the answers to why lovers called out for water to protect the love that grows between you and me.
0
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
Time Ached to Feel No More
We are to come and leave and not return, But hand our secret scroll to those who'd be. I'll pass the writings on which passed to me, And shrink to blackened ash with flameless burn. As far as those who'll be--of whom will earn, That secret scroll containing some of me, Quite like yet quite unlike, in no way me-- They'll mourn for I'll have gone and won't return. To live on in a heart or memory, Is not living or life or anything, But trite consoling words of sympathy-- A metaphor or best a simile-- suspending truth, and grief that loss will bring. In truth no more am I nor shall I be. (C)2015, Christos Rigakos
0
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
We are to come and leave and not return
A Sky Of Melted Butter, Harbors The Setting Sun, Suspending It Above, Flustered Waves Of Blue I Smell Like The Sea The Sails Against The Sky, Have Turned To Silhouettes, The Gentle Waves Caressing, The Edge Of The Horizon   I Taste Like The Sun Seabirds Have Flocked Together, And Are Now Flying Back To Shore, Slumber Has Teased Their Eyelids, For The Jaded Waters Are Vast I Look Like The Stars The Moon Has Floated Upwards, Casting An Ivory Shadow Below, The Wind Has Now Become Calm, The Blue Waves Have Become Still I Sound Like The Breeze The Salt Encrusted Wind Cooled; The Sky Was No Longer Gold, Sails No Longer Dragged Their Cargo, Across The Blackest Of Ocean Waters *If You Were To Touch My Soul, You Would Only Grasp A Word.* Home © Sydney Victoria 2014
0
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
5 Sences (The Sea & I)
I am in the change the shift in between winds of soulful words suspending in their own reasons I cannot gather to understand them How I waste to wonder through it as fleeting Muses cease their inspiration all the while delicate time passes what quiet hours fall into me pouring my soul over and over my heart wonders which cup will my Muse serve me my new words
0
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 2:41 PM UTC
My New Words
I saw you between buildings working in sun network of light letting liberty reconnect. Wires buzzed high voltage streamed inside them darkness questioned its own shades sparks dripped into night's gulf. Fervent as LIGHTNING lathering rooftops sizzling bolts spying timber smothering scars. I saw you tunnel down infinite pure light shattered by solitude entering bold, courageous down into dark mines soldier who never stumbles suspending notes caressed in silence protecting seeds, engaged by yearning I watched you grow twisting up gnawed by roots and rocks begging for water circling wider than galaxies melting skin, taking down drapes promising to visit me in tombed up places dizzy as smoke curled up by desire amnesia searching for identity drafted by absolute fire changless architect rerouting for change vicious as dawn rising in Saturn gentle as mist leaking from her melted eyes swallowing his compassion vanquished revenge to steam her savage attack whirled in amorous sheets. I felt you unveil arousing every heartsick wish blasted down by wailing wills puddles of December gathering reflecting on above while drowning below who is it speaking kindness after rippling screams uprooted trees volley my soul back and forth between worlds consume this spark encircle your breath with goading light dancing inbetween two ruined buildings I listened to rocks slurring for mountain I heard trees lust for water I felt the cries of troubled voices flare across two highways rerouted by dark and light.
0
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 7:47 PM UTC
Changeless Architect
I saw you between buildings working in sun network of light letting liberty reconnect. Wires buzzed high voltage streamed inside them darkness questioned its own shades sparks dripped into night's gulf. Fervent as LIGHTNING lathering rooftops sizzling bolts spying timber smothering scars. I saw you tunnel down infinite pure light shattered by solitude entering bold, courageous down into dark mines soldier who never stumbles suspending notes caressed in silence protecting seeds, engaged by yearning I watched you grow twisting up gnawed by roots and rocks begging for water circling wider than galaxies melting skin, taking down drapes promising to visit me in tombed up places dizzy as smoke curled up by desire amnesia searching for identity drafted by absolute fire changless architect rerouting for change vicious as dawn rising in Saturn gentle as mist leaking from her melted eyes swallowing his compassion vanquished revenge to steam her savage attack whirled in amorous sheets. I felt you unveil arousing every heartsick wish blasted down by wailing wills puddles of December gathering reflecting on above while drowning below who is it speaking kindness after rippling screams uprooted trees volley my soul back and forth between worlds consume this spark encircle your breath with goading light dancing inbetween two ruined buildings I listened to rocks slurring for mountain I heard trees lust for water I felt the cries of troubled voices flare across two highways rerouted by dark and light.
Continue reading...
62
I was hanged once. Seriously. Hanged. If you can believe it. Stupidly and innocently the rope was Slipped over my head. The waggon was pushed out, Suspending me twisting slowly turning With untied hands. Can you see me? I was as good as gone. You'll have to believe me. Take my word. You can't look it up. Seriously. You can't find any account. Nobody reported it. All the same. I was hanged. Left like Eastwood. But, then we were opaque. Not like now, With clicking phones. There aren't enough incarnate spirits To be snatched away by the number of photos. Everything is snapped. Everyone should shudder. If you think with a click you're good to go, You're good as gone. As reported.
0
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
Nobody Reported It
the tides are impossible these days moving in and out of focus, leaning and falling back from shore clawing the ground as they're pulled. they sift through the rocks like a child looking for shells or burying his feet as deep as he can in the gravel's warmness before the cold comes for his ankles. the water moves faster than before-- now that the moon's in an ice chest shedding dust and gravity somewhere in a ship far from shore-- and the men who caught it have hopelessly lost their way, victims of an all-too-sudden high tide and violent, rushing winds. it turns out it didn't take much to take the silvered old rock down. moonlight is spun like a web down in pillars to the ground and water, sticking to sea spray and the clouds, suspending in the air. a couple of fishermen caught it while filled half-and-half with sleep and moonshine. they said it wandered near the edge of the cliff where night meets the day and when they threw the net up the moon's web got twisted, tangled in rope and pulled it right down with them. some light floats on. broken strands of silk take to the air, still attached to the ground and water, though the connection's cut at the other end. they're waving away today, in the sky, like a luminous greeting: hello, or goodbye. people watching onshore say it's pretty to see the moonlight like this-- they say it looks like a field of tall grass pushed sideways and whirling, carrying fireflies and ladybugs away from the overgrown-- and they feel like the insects buried deep in their own glowing forest, talking to the sea and moonlight with waves.
0
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 2:54 AM UTC
nightlight
the tides are impossible these days moving in and out of focus, leaning and falling back from shore clawing the ground as they're pulled. they sift through the rocks like a child looking for shells or burying his feet as deep as he can in the gravel's warmness before the cold comes for his ankles. the water moves faster than before-- now that the moon's in an ice chest shedding dust and gravity somewhere in a ship far from shore-- and the men who caught it have hopelessly lost their way, victims of an all-too-sudden high tide and violent, rushing winds. it turns out it didn't take much to take the silvered old rock down. moonlight is spun like a web down in pillars to the ground and water, sticking to sea spray and the clouds, suspending in the air. a couple of fishermen caught it while filled half-and-half with sleep and moonshine. they said it wandered near the edge of the cliff where night meets the day and when they threw the net up the moon's web got twisted, tangled in rope and pulled it right down with them. some light floats on. broken strands of silk take to the air, still attached to the ground and water, though the connection's cut at the other end. they're waving away today, in the sky, like a luminous greeting: hello, or goodbye. people watching onshore say it's pretty to see the moonlight like this-- they say it looks like a field of tall grass pushed sideways and whirling, carrying fireflies and ladybugs away from the overgrown-- and they feel like the insects buried deep in their own glowing forest, talking to the sea and moonlight with waves.
Continue reading...
47
Deep inside my Tum Whether I am lifting a Van Storm clouds above A damp weatherman Tension hooked in by the side trampoline suspending the moon in our wildest dreams
0
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:17 AM UTC
The buoyancy of dreams
Pendulum hours spring slow forward seasons swaying trigger festivals and the dancing banners on windy streets spell sales for slack jawed jugglers eager to pedal wears to the weary under the growing sun of a dieing season. I am a beast in the cage of these streets one way bars holding back barbarism. My snarling is better suited for the trees my guttural bark out car doors at street performers better suited for stick beaten drum circles spinning madly under the moon. I lap from the sewer grates like a lost dog too proud to die their like my hero on a post above to me the raven quoth, what a bore. Only men behind electric glass have seen me on drunken nights I confess my heart and dance away my soul(s) before their iron eye. In this city I do not sleep my heart glides to grassy groves when my eyes close to lock out the bright and unending street lights that are suspending my cowards heart above the darkness i still fear. I am a child take me to where the wild things are.
0
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC
Trapped in the City
hypnotic dreams, what are you telling me? I feel everything, I feel myself unraveling the beautiful ribbons suddenly choking me I can't breathe, I can't see the winding road ahead, me ever leaving this bed possibilities are endless but not in my head there's only one way or else I stray cannot see myself set ablaze at the stake I thought I was magic turns out I am just a magnet for tragic endings suspending my beliefs, diving deep I hope I can reignite the spark in me the sparks I bleed and not just drown in this sea heaven watch over me
0
Nov 12, 2021
Nov 12, 2021 at 5:48 PM UTC
Heaven Watch Over Me
In the audio recording you sent me An hour of touching yourself punishment for misbehavior you giggle and cry at the same time With a trembling whimper It's too late now, for a confession. We were never so honest, as our *** Violent, passionate suspending reality momentarily Life's one true sin, objectification. And now, you are a recording. Your eye begging Me, The Cuckoo Bird To Free you from your own fingers like the cuckoo bird My religion Only gave me one hour To howl, at passing time.
0
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC
Cuckoo Bird
Is it cold there I wonder just beneath her chest does the wind howl with a bitter sigh is the land covered with frozen riverbeds holding back icy tears a flurry of unused emotions hardened into ice showering everything it touches in a hail storm of self-pity A pint of warm whiskey chips away at the frost bite numbing the boarders of your heart but it only leads to a blizzard of regret The harshness of this tundra burns through flesh and bone and sinks into a man’s soul suspending it in a seemingly endless winter where longing congeals into sharp jagged shards of glacial malice Yes it is very cold there, but I remember better times when the cool air twirled around me embracing me more like an old friend instead of passing through as an unforgiving gust that chills already achy joints I would lay there flat on my back, and sink into the velvet snow, indulging in bliss as I am taken in by inner warmth Catching crystalline snowflakes with my tongue as they melt into something that tastes of something salty and sweet ending in rapture with a shiver then a sigh I would imagine, hope and pray to never leave her winter this home my frigid paradise I would imagine being her absolute love the only warmth within this white abyss No matter how cold it gets I’ll be here, I would say as I lay on my back and stare into her pale blue skies
0
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
Her Winter
emergency repairs to broken roads, being less than expected, i prompt some to ask too much. damage, storm-related damage, a million surrenders by early november, i throw my arms up suspending the normal. wind, waves washed out every east-west highway, bypassed permission - no such thing as waiting for a good day. bring in the guard and hire flaggers, rebuilders take gravel and rock from the brooks and rivers, reduce the cost of me, consider me open to no lanes of traffic crossed-off gates in an absence of hope. major reconstruction, let's have a conversation about existing doesn't mean just fixing wounds suffered from the storm; some words of warning - be careful buying stake in a girl who's longing for the day she'll wake up and feel relief from drowning.
0
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 4:15 PM UTC
in the hills
the woes the woes of the poets did compound for there were many woes around the woes they couldn't surmount woes that stayed on the estate's   mount poets tormented by woes day and night and there was no respite for their plight the woes were never ending the woes not ever suspending the woes such as plagiarists taking works in pilfering fists so too the trolls on patrol on them no firm control woes woes woes besetting the poetry community woes woes woes permitted to act with licensed impunity woes woes woes of them not much immunity     woes woes woes
0
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 8:19 PM UTC
Woes